It was funny. It was, truly. Funny in Tenebrae's utter ignorance, of how little he knew about the soul of the very man standing beside him. Solomon's quote, his warning, had dashed unheard against Tenebrae's soul. But Nathanial Quiver had heard.
He had heard, and that ember struck alight.
Solomon laughed. It wasn't a chuckle or a soft-scattered noise still pained. It was laugh of genuine amusement, of a man who had power his opponent could not even begin to comprehend. A power that made him strong beyond Tenebrae's understanding. "Only the first, Tenebrae," he breathed, "for what I know now has the power to convert millions."
Cirurgie pinned back his other eyelid and laid his fingers on Solomon's face. His movements were slightly unnerved, but with the determination of someone to prove. This would be done right.
The laughter was still on Solomon's face right up until Cirurgie sent his Necromantic tendrils in behind his eye. The smile persisted even as Solomon's back arched, as he cried out breathlessly, but there was an odd tenor to it all. This time, he didn't fight. This time Solomon all but welcomed the pain, let it wash through him. Something he couldn't resist, and therefore didn't try.
After all he had done, he had earned this. Let it scour him. Let it be known that he had witnessed, personally, the same torture to which he'd committed others.
His screams came no less honest. His jerks, his tears, his sobs. His world seared wildly and in pain, and yet there was a heart of him it couldn't touch. As if just having Kian had imparted something to him he hadn't been able to see until scourged of everything in him that was unnecessary.
When it was over, when he sagged in the chair with his face bloody and body trembling, when he caught his wildly-hitching breath and his being hummed with pain, Solomon's peace resonated all the louder.
What do you want, Solomon?
Head hanging, his sight a wash of unbound purple-red, Solomon laughed.
no subject
He had heard, and that ember struck alight.
Solomon laughed. It wasn't a chuckle or a soft-scattered noise still pained. It was laugh of genuine amusement, of a man who had power his opponent could not even begin to comprehend. A power that made him strong beyond Tenebrae's understanding. "Only the first, Tenebrae," he breathed, "for what I know now has the power to convert millions."
Cirurgie pinned back his other eyelid and laid his fingers on Solomon's face. His movements were slightly unnerved, but with the determination of someone to prove. This would be done right.
The laughter was still on Solomon's face right up until Cirurgie sent his Necromantic tendrils in behind his eye. The smile persisted even as Solomon's back arched, as he cried out breathlessly, but there was an odd tenor to it all. This time, he didn't fight. This time Solomon all but welcomed the pain, let it wash through him. Something he couldn't resist, and therefore didn't try.
After all he had done, he had earned this. Let it scour him. Let it be known that he had witnessed, personally, the same torture to which he'd committed others.
His screams came no less honest. His jerks, his tears, his sobs. His world seared wildly and in pain, and yet there was a heart of him it couldn't touch. As if just having Kian had imparted something to him he hadn't been able to see until scourged of everything in him that was unnecessary.
When it was over, when he sagged in the chair with his face bloody and body trembling, when he caught his wildly-hitching breath and his being hummed with pain, Solomon's peace resonated all the louder.
What do you want, Solomon?
Head hanging, his sight a wash of unbound purple-red, Solomon laughed.